


The World Is Not Enough

by MonocerosRex



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Anal Sex, Assassination, Assassins & Hitmen, Banter, Blow Jobs, Espionage, Fake Out Makeouts, Gadgets, Guns, Hollywood Silencers, Hurt/Comfort, James Bond AU, Lava Tank, M/M, Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents, Spies and Assassins AU, Swearing, Truth Serum, a cartoonish villain, but it is a hell of a lot of fun if I do say so myself, courtesy of Tony StarQ, every ridiculous spy trope you can imagine up to and including, gratuitous henchmen death, i made zero effort to integrate canon, it’s all just a framework for the Juicy Bits, i’m not going to apologise, like you wouldn’t believe, oops i dropped all the homophobia, professional adversaries to lovers, secret agent AU, the barest hint of a plot, the tone is not as silly as you might expect given the givens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:57:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonocerosRex/pseuds/MonocerosRex
Summary: Steve was a good agent, an excellent agent, but that didn’t mean he never got distracted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Strap in y'all

Steve was a good agent, an excellent agent, but that didn’t mean he never got distracted.

The yacht was enormous, the roar of the ocean so far down it hardly registered over the strains of the string quartet. Everything about the party glittered; the stars in the sky, the lights on the water, champagne bubbles, lavish jewels, and hard eyes. Steve sipped his scotch and soda by the bar and took in the elegant evening dresses and tailored suits, swirling around one another in a calculated dance both on and off the floor. The guests were all members of the local elite—politicians and CEOs, swimming around each other like sharks. Steve’s target hovered near the door in a bowtie and cumerbund, clutching a glass of white like a lifeline. He was a mousy little scientist who had attached himself to powerful men without acquiring their tastes, and he looked desperately uncomfortable here.  

An older woman dripping in diamonds smiled slowly at Steve, and he tilted his glass at her, glad for something to make his vigil look more natural. She glided across the deck, wedding band winking at him from her champagne flute. Steve smiled invitingly and leaned against the bar, settling deeper into his persona. He recognised her as Carol Salant, a ruthless businesswoman with a deep interest in corporate espionage and a reputation for ruining her competitors. She wasn’t related to his mission—or even his department—but she could prove useful anyway. Steve was candidly taking in her figure when a spark of familiarity pulled his eyes away, towards the stairs.

Descending from the upper deck was a man his age, dark hair eccentrically long, clad in a charcoal three piece. Steve couldn’t see his face, but his body language, the carefully casual way he walked, screamed _predator_ to Steve’s trained eye. The cut of his suit was such that, if he were wearing a holster, it wouldn’t show. Steve narrowed his eyes. It was possible he was security, or even that Steve was imagining things, but in this business one swiftly learned to trust one’s gut.

The woman folded herself onto the stool beside him and he turned his attention towards her without losing sight of the man in his peripherals. It took very little effort to keep up the flirtation with her, trading loaded glances and meaningless witticisms with the cutting efficiency known only to spies and socialites. The man slid through the crowd to settle against the railing, perfectly situated to keep everyone in view without seeming separate. Steve had spent some time in that position himself, earlier.

The conversation lulled and the woman glanced away coyly, sipping her drink. Steve took the opportunity to sweep a casual glance around the room, getting his first glimpse of the man he was becoming sure was another agent.

He was about Steve’s height, perhaps slightly leaner. A strong jaw and high cheekbones hovered somewhere between savage and aristocratic, his mouth a perfect, sensual bow. Wintery blue eyes, accentuated by the colour of his suit, followed the dancers without straying far enough to lose sight of Steve himself. A jolt of sour adrenaline hit when Steve realised he’d been made in turn, but it was valuable intel of itself; the man was obviously very good.

He was interrupted from his study when an insipid young man with weedy blond hair invaded the bubble he and the woman had wrapped around themselves.

“Mrs. Salant, good evening,” he said ingratiatingly, waiting avidly for the beat where he could introduce himself. The woman shot Steve a look that was equal parts annoyed and apologetic. Steve smirked and shrugged fatalistically. He lifted his hand from hers and excused himself, her ring disappearing up his sleeve.

When he turned away, the other man was watching him. Their eyes met, and the barest hint of a smirk curled the man’s mouth. He tilted his head in invitation.

The shadow of his target hadn’t moved a nervous inch, and his superiors would be happy to learn anything they could about the mysterious other agent. The klaxons in Steve’s head warned him of the danger, but he couldn’t risk the man taking him off guard later.

And let it not be said that Steve was capable of refusing a dare.

Feeling the man’s gaze like a physical weight Steve made his way across the lower deck. The agent lounged calmly against the railing, one hand cradling an americano and the other tucked casually in his pocket. Steve could see no evidence of weapons on his person—but he knew they were there.

“Enjoying the party?” Steve asked, placing his free hand on the rail and angling his body towards him.

The man shrugged. “Not really my scene. Besides,” he smiled, showing a hint of white teeth. “I’m working.” His voice held no trace of an accent.

“What a coincidence,” Steve finished the cliché, rolling his eyes. “So am I.”

The man’s pale eyes danced. “Oh? And what is it you do?”

Steve was sorely tempted to one up the other agent by responding explicitly, but there were far too many guests within earshot. “Breed goldfish,” he said instead, raising an eyebrow to indicate he had expected better.

The agent gave him a pointed once over. “Are they made of actual gold?”

Steve snorted. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man approach his target, and he suddenly realised that this place on the boat was perfect for keeping an eye on him. The barest flicker of a reaction confirmed his fear the man had the same target. Steve felt the familiar prick of adrenaline, his heart rate picking up. He’d been trained with the best to mask his expressions, but the agent must have seen something in his face. Something dangerous slithered into his eyes.

“Would you care to dance?” Steve heard the double meaning, and his heartbeat quickened.

“I’d love to.” Watching the curve of the agent’s smirk Steve found that this was almost true, for all he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

Leaving their glasses they moved toward the dance floor, the ensemble playing a string of simple waltzes so the corn-fed politicians and Silicon Valley billionaires could imagine themselves aristocrats. The music was sufficiently loud to obscure normal conversation.

“Who will lead?” Steve asked as they chose a place amongst the dancers.

The agent looked at him consideringly. “Perhaps we could share?” He offered, his hair falling across his shoulder when he tipped his head.

Steve narrowed his eyes and didn’t respond at first. The man held out his right hand and Steve dutifully stepped into the leading position, perhaps a little closer than necessary. Steve suppressed a shiver as the man’s warm fingers closed on his, his other hand sliding slowly around to rest at his back. Subtly frisking him or aiming to distract—Steve knew too many spooks to assume there was no ulterior motive to the proprietary touch, though it made his skin heat all the same.

Without looking away Steve stepped into the beat, the man following his lead expertly. They were close enough for their chests to brush with every movement.

“That depends,” Steve answered finally, checking in with the target as they completed a turn. The man’s eyebrows twitched upward.

“On?”

“What you’re here for.” A drunk couple stumbled into their path and Steve smoothly steered them out of their way.

The slightest flicker of surprise crossed the man’s face. “The same thing as you, I thought.”

“I’m not so sure.” Steve was confident the agent was here on a wet job. Steve couldn’t care less if the evil little Nazi died, as long as he got his hands on the item he came for.

“No? I thought goldfish farmers had rather particular set of skills,” the man murmured, not bothering to hide his glance towards their target.

Steve weighed his options. Even if he were unaware of the item the scientist was carrying, if Steve revealed he was there to steal something the other agent might thwart him in the hopes of finding it himself. On the other hand, it would impact his chances of success greatly to have another operative stalking his target while he worked. The man watched him think, their bodies moving together perfectly in contrast the their stalemate.

For two more turns they observed each other, and Steve was careful to keep track of the man’s hands. He wet his lips and Steve didn’t fight the urge to look. The man tugged him closer, his body a warm, hard line against his front. Steve’s breath quickened, hyper aware of the myriad points they touched, of the coiled danger in the other man’s body. Steve knew at least fifteen ways he could kill the man, but had to assume it went both ways.

“I don’t owe my employer more than Zola’s death,” he whispered, his breath brushing the shell of Steve’s ear. Something hot clenched in Steve’s stomach, not half because of the morsel of information the man had offered him. It could be a trick, he knew; imply he was unaffliliated and not interested in Steve’s goals so he could get the take on him. But if that were the case it would make the agent predictable, and that could be an advantage of its own.

Steve took a breath, acutely aware of the dagger in his sleeve pressing against the other agent’s ribs, the exact path over the side which would get him to a lifeboat, the shifting muscle under his palm.

“Works for me,” he murmured, trusting his gut. The man’s left hand slid an inch lower, almost like a reward. Steve cut him a coy look. “I won’t make you wait long,” he continued their game from earlier.

“I’m a patient guy,” the agent responded, seeming pleased. “But maybe you should hurry, for his sake.” The agent glanced amusedly over to where Zola was blending into the wall. “I think he’d welcome being put out of his misery.”

Steve bit his lip to stifle a chuckle at the dark humour. The agent’s eyes flicked down to his mouth and Steve bit harder reflexively. “He does seem tense. You think he needs a smoke?”

The agent raised his eyebrows. “You asking me how to do your job, agent?” A test to see if he would confirm his affiliation.

“Why, you know a lot about goldfish, _agent?_ ” Steve retorted, revealing nothing.

“I’m beginning to want to,” he murmured, the fingers of his left hand rumpling Steve’s suit. Goosebumps pricked Steve’s skin and for a moment he regretted his good sense; there was a part of him that thought it might almost be worth compromising himself for what the man was implying.

There was a wary shadow in the other man’s eyes, however, that told Steve he wasn’t as willing to make himself vulnerable as his words suggested.

The piece they were dancing to ended and Steve drew away, though he couldn’t help a final lingering glance at the handsome stranger. Steve suspected that mouth and those hard eyes were going to star in his fantasies for some time.

“Knock ‘em dead,” the man quipped as Steve turned away.

“Not my job,” he said over his shoulder, hoping he’d made the right call.

He felt the strangers’ eyes on his back as he walked away.

He had originally planned to wait, letting the party-goers grow drunker and less observant, but he was willing to move his schedule up in order to minimise variables. Steve crossed the deck at an angle that allowed him to brush past the little man on his way to the door, his jacket not quite touching the scientist’s. More than close enough.

Through the doors were the steps leading below decks. Zola’s stateroom was located towards the back of the boat, and Steve navigated to it confidently. He’d only briefly seen the blueprints of this particular model, but since the serum his memory was perfect.

He was careful not to glance around himself suspiciously, but he tracked the only staff member he saw in his peripherals. Keeping his movements calm just in case Steve slid a leather fold out of his jacket. It appeared to be bulging with cash, but in truth it disguised a small card cloner. As he came up to the door Steve slid out the blank door card and held it over the scanner. The light blinked red for a moment and Steve took care to look bored, but then it went green and there was a _click._ Steve let himself in.

The stateroom was lavish, with more than enough room for an antique dresser and sitting area on the lower floor. The king bed was set into a raised platform, brocade sheets still pristinely made up. It was obvious Zola hadn’t bothered to unpack for the single-night trip, his small portmanteau sitting on the table, and Steve took careful note of its position before flipping it open. He rifled through the contents as carefully as possible, disturbing nothing. The jewellery box wasn’t in there, but before Steve closed it up he carefully slid Salant’s ring between the layers of clothing as insurance.

The drawers of the dresser were empty, and the furniture was all bolted to the floor. The pockets of his casual jacket, slung over the back of a chair, held only lint. Steve ran his hands through the pillows on the bed without moving them, coming up with nothing.

His hand had hardly brushed handle of the wardrobe when he heard a familiar _click._

Without time to second-guess himself Steve ducked into the closet, shutting himself in darkness even as the main door swung open. Through the crack between the doors Steve watched the man who had spoken to Zola at the party slide into the room with the oily caution of the ill-intentioned. Heart hammering Steve watched as the large man took a small tin out of his pocket and planted a sticky bug behind the head of the bed, under the table, and inside the collar of Zola’s jacket. He glanced around the room, obviously looking for other places to plant surveillance. His eyes fell on the wardrobe and Steve clenched his fingers around the sedative ballpoint in his pocket. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, audible through the partially-open door, and the man stiffened, slipping silently back out of the room.

Steve waited as long as he dared, but no one else entered. Aware of the extra time-pressure the handsome assassin added Steve swung the wardrobe doors open—and as the light fell into the small space he saw it; a pile of linens, neatly folded and tucked into the shelf above him, the edges slightly disturbed. Sliding a hand between the layers Steve’s fingers brushed wood. Drawing out the small box Steve flicked it open. A pair of enormous diamond studs glinted against the black velvet, the obscurification of the mount telling Steve they were almost certainly real. Pinching the velour cushion they were pinned into Steve carefully lifted it out of the box. The was nothing underneath it, but when he squeezed down he could feel the tell-tale lump of a flash drive hidden inside the pad. Satisfaction curled in Steve’s gut and he snapped the box closed again.

Tucking his prize into his inner pocket Steve walked back out and straight into a panicked crew member.  

“Sorry sir!” They said without even looking, scrambling past him on their way to the deck. Steve narrowed his eyes and followed.

The main deck was a swirl of confusion, the strains of the band still playing underneath but no one remaining on the dancefloor. People were crowding around a corner of the deck, staff trying to politely herd people back.

“What happened?” Steve asked a delighted young yuppie, though he already knew the answer.

“Some old guy just _died,_ ” he gushed. “Just collapsed, apparently! They’re saying it was a heart attack.” Steve carefully hid his amusement. It would look suspicious for him to be too disinterested, so Steve stayed in the crowd, waiting for his turn to gawk at the body. He scanned the deck methodically but was unsurprised to find no trace of the stranger.

Steve tried not to examine his disappointment too carefully.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man I'm highkey intimidated by my own notes for this but i'm also EXITED let's fuck this chicken. Prepare yourselves for a steady increase in quality and wildly inconsistent chapter lengths.
> 
>  
> 
> Recommended listening: Man from U.N.C.L.E. soundtrack, Kingsman soundtrack, and all the James Bond intros.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams are coming up (along with literally everything else that's ever happened to a person) so have an update bc the next couple weeks are gonna be Wildtm

Steve was happily ensconced in his pool seat doing his best to eat every canape in sight when his target finally made his entrance. Brock Rumlow was dressed casually, like everyone there, in trunks and a tee, and clearly already drunk.

Steve took all this in with only the barest glance, however, his attention completely focused on Rumlow’s companion; the man from the boat.

He was perfectly in disguise as another rich young thing, but the way he was shadowing the target made it perfectly clear he was there as a bodyguard. Steve swore under his breath.

This job had required deep cover, and Steve was operating naked. Cold dread curled up his spine as he realised he’d have to fight the other agent, almost covering a frisson of excitement in his belly.

There was no time to consider his options. The man swept for threats subtly but efficiently the moment he stepped out with his charge. Steve was clocked at almost the exact moment he laid eyes on the agent. Relaxing back into his chair Steve gave the man a nod, settling into the adrenaline burn. The corner of the man’s lips curled up deliberately.

Rumlow was immediately assaulted by a group of drunk young men, laughing and punching him on the arm. The agent had no trouble blending in, chuckling at their antics, playing the role of the sober friend. Clean shaven he didn’t look much older than his client, and his messy bun helped as well, but his brown leather jacket did nothing to hide the heavy lines of muscle underneath. Strength for strength Steve knew no one could best the serum, but he didn’t like the many hours of training they implied.

The cluster of young men made their way to the converted bus operating as the bar, ordering shots. To Steve’s surprise the bodyguard participated for several rounds. He didn’t look over again, but Steve wasn’t foolish enough to assume he'd been forgotten.

He had originally intended to simply poison his target, either by spiking his drink or scratching him with the needle in his fake class ring. The poison was slow acting, and more or less mimicked the symptoms of alcohol poisoning. By the time the toxicology screen came back Steve would be long gone.

He had no illusions about the viability of that plan now, however. There was no way he’d get close enough with the other agent already aware of his presence. Bodyguards were not usually trained to guard against rare poisons and high-tech gadgetry, but it was clear this man had a background in espionage.

Steve cursed internally. He wasn’t usually assigned wetwork. Fury had said it was imperative no one realise it was an assassination for several hours after the death, which had ruled out a headshot from Clint.  

Steve turned his eyes back to agent. The man seemed to sense his gaze and finally looked over at him. He leaned against the bar, his shoulder bumping the target's familiarly, and smirked. Steve narrowed his eyes.  

There was only one thing for it. He needed to get the man out of his way.

The night passed both fast and slow after that, Steve hyper-aware of the position of Rumlow and the stranger at every moment. By 3:00 AM most of the guests were passed out or upstairs doing cocaine. Steve was confident the scantily clad serving girls who had been distributing finger food and alcohol all night were high as well—not that Steve could blame them. The target was almost falling over himself, looking about ready to curl up on the damp concrete and fall asleep. The other man had an arm around him, looking far too relaxed for a babysitter with a charge as vulnerable as his.

“Excuse me,” said a very young woman in a very small bikini. “This is for you.” She held out a glass of brown liquor over ice. Steve raised his eyebrows questioningly as he took it. “From that guy over there,” she said, pointing behind him. Steve’s fingers tightened on the glass. He turned back to find the agent looking directly at him, unconcerned by the boy drooling on his shoulder. He was smirking, holding a glass similar to Steve’s. As he watched the man raised it in a challenging toast.

The man had to know Steve was there to kill his client. There were plenty of other likely targets at the party, but in that case the job would have been done several hours ago. Few had bothered to bring personal security, and those that did posed zero challenge for a man like Steve. It stood to reason, then, that the drink was poisoned. As crude as it would be to poison him in public with a young woman to witness it was still a viable strategy to keep his charge alive.

Steve looked into the drink. There were any number of drugs that could be administered undetectably via bourbon. He looked back up at the man’s mocking smile. Natasha would kill him.

Natasha wasn’t there.

Steve held his eyes and took a sip, the liquor burning down and mingling with the tell-tale rush that got him into this business in the first place. The other operative raised an eyebrow and took a drink of his own, gaze never leaving his. Steve shivered.  

There were very few poisons that could kill Steve these days, and even fewer that were tasteless, odourless. It was unlikely this man had dosed him with something deadly. Steve licked the alcohol off his lips and it tasted like danger anyway.

He couldn’t help but wonder if it was poisoned at all.

The guard woke Rumlow up enough to stumble into the house, presumably to a secured bedroom. Steve let them go—if the job was to remain quiet he’d have to wait.

By around 5:00 AM the place was empty. The last straggling partygoers had all gone inside to sleep, the few kids still tweaked enough to dance moving on to another location. Steve stood, wincing at the waffle pattern on his thigh from the plastic deckchair he’d been in the majority of the night. Checking his concealed blade and poisoned ring were still in place he carefully took in his surroundings before making his way towards the house.

He’d just reached the edge of the deck when a tiny noise made itself heard over the pounding playlist still thumping from the speakers. He threw himself to the side a fraction too late, the mysterious agent crashing onto his back from the second floor balcony.

With a grunt Steve stayed somehow upright, his bare feet gripping the smooth concrete. The man grabbed his throat with a cold, unyielding hand but Steve reached behind, catching the man’s jaw and slamming him to the ground. The agent rolled to his knees in a split second and Steve seized a pool chair from the deck and smashed it against his side. The man cried out as a rib snapped audibly, but it hardly slowed him springing to his feet. Steve ducked an expert jab to the throat, biting back a scream as the agent crunched his boot against Steve’s knee. The pain tore at his leg but he drove forward anyway, catching the man in the ribs with his shoulder. The agent hammered his fist down on the back of Steve’s neck. Steve twisted at the last second so it merely cracked his scapula. He pulled away with a hiss but too slow—the man got an arm around his middle and hurled him into a table. Landing badly in the splintered wood Steve choked on a cry as his side exploded with pain. Flicking the sweat out of his eyes Steve gasped as a full beer keg came flying towards him. With a shout he twisted away, surging to his feet and charging his assailant, his ruined knee twisting in agony.

He threw a punch, favouring his injured shoulder, once again concentrating his efforts on the man’s damaged ribs. The man caught his fist, stopping his momentum completely. Steve gaped in shock, their eyes meeting for a frozen moment.

In all the years since the serum he’d never met his match.

The moment of hesitation was too long. The man’s other fist crashed into his face, only his opponent's broken rib saving Steve’s eye socket. Steve smashed his head forwards but the man evaded, somehow protecting his groin from Steve’s knee in the process. He hit him across the jaw and Steve saw stars, but in the follow through his booted feet slipped on the wet poolside concrete. In that split second opening Steve got a hit in, feeling the agent’s collarbone shatter under his knuckles.

The agent yelled and tore himself back a step. Steve didn’t let him have it, surging forward again, but the man flipped a tray of shrimp in his face and bought himself the gap. Steve spat copper and kicked out, but the man whipped a towel from the back of a chair and blocked. It caught his foot, the man tangling his ankle and wrenching him off balance, throwing Steve to the ground.

He was on him with a snarl. Steve heaved but couldn’t move him, one hand coming up to shield his face as the other gouged at the man’s eyes. Without telegraphing an inch the man brought his fist down and Steve dodged it by luck and the grace of God alone. It crashed into the concrete a hair’s breadth from Steve’s skull, smashing a hole up to his wrist. If Steve had had even a single thought to spare he would have gasped, but as the man pulled back for another strike it took everything Steve had to save his brain from becoming paste. His questing hand closed around an empty bottle at the last second, and he swung his hand up to smash it against the man’s face. He reared back, his right cheek a mess of cuts, and Steve bucked his hips to throw him off. The man refused to yield, struggling to hold Steve down, his powerful left arm compensating for his broken right. Steve grappled him, somehow getting a leg under the agent's hips and rolling on top—and with a sudden drop they fell into the pool.

Steve blinked his eyes open against the dark, the bass throbbing through the water like his racing heartbeat. There was no time to get a grip on the edge, the pair sinking faster than they should be. Steve kicked as hard as he could, his lungs already screaming from the lack of a preparatory inhale. The other man shoved at his shoulders, kicking himself but trying to keep Steve under. Steve shoved him away, trying to get a knee into his ribs but the water stealing his force. He somehow got a hand in the man’s long hair, pushing his face down as his own head breached the surface long enough for half a breath.

White hot pain blasted through his nerve endings as a bullet ripped through his hip. The man’s right hand was gripping his belt, pulling Steve down as a counterweight as he struggled towards the surface. Steve choked on a reflexive mouthful of water, bracing himself for a fatal shot. There was a jerk—and the telltale sound of the water hampering his pistol’s reload.

The reprieve lasted barely a second. After dropping the useless semiauto the agent’s left hand was now free. Steve took the chance to wrap his legs around the man’s torso, his lighter clothing an advantage in the pool. The scream of metal pierced the water and Steve’s arm was wrenched back. There was a flurry of bubbles and somehow Steve’s wrist was trapped, the railing of the pool twisted around it. The man finally kicked free of Steve and dragged himself to the air. Steve caught the edge behind his head and pulled his shoulders out of the water, bracing with his feet to dodge the brutal punch that broke the tiles next to his face. Letting himself go under again Steve caught the man in his legs, preventing him getting his arm out of the water for a proper swing. Even with the drag the next punch landed with shattering intensity, but taking it bought Steve the second he needed to get the flat knife unstrapped from his thigh. His first strike glanced off the man’s left with a metallic _clang_ the water couldn't hide. Steve swung again, but the wet leather of the man’s jacket made for good armour. Dodging a punch from his weakened right fist which _still_ would have crunched his nose into his grey matter Steve stabbed the blade into the agent's face. This close there was no way to miss, and the terrified amphibian in Steve’s brainstem roared in victory—and Steve’s knife ripped into an inflatable flamingo, getting wrenched out of his grip. The man’s hand smacked into his face, tangling in his hair and slamming his head back against the poolside, once, twice, and Steve put one last burst of strength into freeing his hand. With a squeal of metal and the crunch of bone it came free and Steve launched himself off the side of the pool, crashing into the agent and pushing them further out towards the centre. Once again Steve felt the increased drag of gravity, the man’s impossible weight, but he pushed though, climbing the agent until his legs were around his chest and neck. He dragged the weight of them both up until his head broke the surface, the man thrashing against his hold. Metal fingers scrabbled for his bullet wound and Steve caught the cold wrist under his knee, treading water doggedly even as he bled out into the chlorine. The man’s boots frothed the water, his muscles bunching and heaving as he struggled against Steve’s hold, but Steve had the advantage. Weakening hands clawed at Steve but he fought, keeping the man under as his movements slowed. Steve panted for air, fatigue clouding his mind, until finally the man fell still.

Steve held him under for another long moment, but he knew his own limits and the man was approaching even those. Allowing himself to slip under for one tired moment he reached down to check for a pulse. To his surprise— _or maybe not_ — it was there, thready and slow in the man’s neck. Steve released the grip of his thighs and took the man’s arm, dragging him to the edge. With a great heave he got him onto the ground, pulling his own battered body out after him.

Not wasting time on the stranger Steve jogged into the mansion, following his instincts and finding a heavily armoured door in one of the lavish bedroom suites. Scrounging up his last morsel of energy Steve slammed a kick into the wall beside the door, his foot crashing through the plaster with ease. Knocking out a space big enough for himself Steve stumbled into the room and nicked the unconscious kid on the ankle, barely even looking at him. Throwing a chair through the hole to explain it Steve exited through the window and melted into the dawn.

 

***

 

“He was fast, strong. Had a metal arm.” Natasha’s face hardly moved, but Steve could see she was shocked. “What? What do you know?”

She looked away. “There’s a rumour in the intelligence community about a HYDRA assassin who defected. They call him the Winter Soldier.”

Sam sucked in a breath from across the meeting room. “Dude, you splashed the _Winter Soldier?_ ”

“Wait a minute,” Tony interrupted. “The infamous Winter Soldier has a metal arm? How did we not know this?”

“We didn’t even know he was enhanced,” Sam pointed out.

“Almost no one knows about the arm,” Natasha assured Tony. “It was a deep level HYDRA project, SHIELD didn’t want it getting out.”

“What is he, SVR?” Steve asked. “His accent was perfect.”

“He’s not anything; after killing his handlers he became a free agent. No one knows where he’s from. No one knows anything about him, really.”

“No one alive, anyway,” Sam added.

“You should get the take on him, Steve, this intel could be huge—”

“No,” Natasha interrupted Tony flatly. “Don't engage. You have no idea how dangerous the Soldier can be.” Her eyes were hard to cover her fear. “I mean it, Steve. Stay away from him.”

“I will,” Steve promised her, and he even meant it.

At the time.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am highkey writing this whole damn thing to force myself to practice action. Shit. I hope it was alright. 
> 
> Y'all these boys were so horny to fight each other you don't even know. Don't believe Steve's internal commentary he cannot be trusted


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the inane flailing of an exhausted uni student.

 

“He’s disappeared, man, there’s no sign of him!” Sam called through comms.

“What? How?” Nat didn’t sound pleased.

“It’s a basement! There’s no way out!” One of the young CIA agents they were working with cried.

“Well he found one; the guy is solid gone.”

Steve bit his lip and thought hard. Since Natasha had IDed the Winter Soldier they hadn’t heard a single whisper about the guy, until one day something extremely sensitive was stolen from the Library of Congress. SHIELD was desperate to get ahold of the ex-HYDRA operative, especially since learning he was enhanced like Steve, and so they’d sent a small team to help track down the seemingly unstoppable super-agent. They’d even had him trapped, or so they thought.

They’d forgotten that ghosts could walk through walls.

“The tunnels,” Steve said, sprinting for the street, running calculations in his head.

“What tunnels?” Natasha demanded, keeping pace with him.

“Underneath Capitol Hill there’s a network of steam tunnels. They have maintenance hatches, probably accessible from the buildings’ basements.”

“How do you even know that, man?” Sam asked under his breath.

“If he got to the tunnels he’s probably long gone by now.” Natasha said, out of breath.

“No, these things are long and straight, like—corridors that go for miles. There aren’t that many access points, he’d have to follow it along at least to—” Steve skidded to a stop beside the Cannon HOB and a small grey door set into the ground. “—here.” The metal screamed as he tore the door off and jumped down into the humid darkness—right onto the shoulders of the fleeing Soldier.

“Payback,” Steve grunted. The Soldier’s hands flew to his legs but Steve was already executing a flip, slamming the other man into the huge blue and yellow pipes running along the walls of the cramped tunnel. The metallic clang and following grunt echoed strangely off the damp concrete, almost obscuring the catlike tap of Natasha landing behind him.

The Soldier didn’t bother rising, diving for Steve’s legs and grappling him to the floor. Prepared now for the hammering force of his left arm Steve managed to catch it before it obliterated his skull, but it took both hands and all his strength. In the moment he had it caught Natasha’s foot smashed into the Soldier’s face, bone crunching audibly. Even with blood running into his eyes Natasha barely manage to avoid being grabbed by his human hand.

Seizing the moment of confusion Steve trapped the Soldier’s leg and tossed him off, setting them both racing to their feet. The Soldier was at a disadvantage and made it up a second later. Steve threw a punch and was blocked, and then Natasha was there, pressing a Widow’s Bite to his neck. The glow from the open hatch was enough for Steve and the Soldier, but Natasha was close to blind; in the sparking blue light she saw the Soldier’s position too late, he sound of her wrist breaking in his grip horribly clear in the confined space. Steve got a hand in the Soldier’s long hair, dragging his spasming body against him to try for a hold. Over his shoulder Steve watched Natasha fumble for her gun with her left hand, the humidity sticking her hair to her neck. The Soldier failed to muscle his way out of the hold and instead smashed his head into Steve’s nose, the coppery tang mixing with the metallic smell of the cramped tunnel. Steve did not relent, however. His position was good, and with the metal arm trapped the Soldier was ever so slightly weaker than him.

The Soldier obviously didn’t know the meaning of ‘defeat’, however. In the split second Natasha’s gun caught on the inside of her coat the man twisted them around just enough to press Steve’s face against a small, uninsulated feeder pipe.

Steve screamed, the sound amplified a hundred fold by the echoes, the skin on his cheek melting to the white-hot steel. His grip went slack and the weight of the Soldier was gone. Steve was wrestled to his knees.

It took two blinks for him to clear the tears from his eyes, and then Steve was greeted with the barrel of a gun.

Natasha stood in front of him, her injured arm braced against her stomach, her pistol pointed over Steve’s shoulder. Another cold muzzle was digging into Steve’s soaked hair. He was going to die underground, executed on his knees. For some completely irrational reason, Steve felt betrayed.

He hadn’t realised he’d been having fun until it drained away.

They all waited together in the dark for a long, hot moment.

Nat dropped her gun.

“Hands out,” the Soldier said, and Steve realised it was the first time he’d heard him speak since the boat. That voice had haunted his damn dreams. Even distorted and breathless Steve thought he would have recognised it a hundred years from now.

Natasha held her hands out carefully, the right alarmingly swollen already.

“Step back.” Natasha’s mouth twisted. The Soldier noticed. “I'd be an idiot to keep him alive. I won’t offer again.” The was a hardness to his words that reminded Steve of a coyote, of an animal that had eaten its offspring in a lean winter.

Natasha stepped back.

The Soldier fired.

The crack reverberated through the tunnel with blinding intensity, Natasha crying out in pain. The punctured pipe tore itself apart from the releasing pressure, the small space growing almost instantly choked with fog. Somehow finding her gun Natasha ran past Steve out of the cloud, but her expletives told him what he needed to know.

The Soldier was gone with the documents.

And they were alive.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you about the chapter lengths. Be glad I wrote anything at all--my life is like a washing machine filled with underwire bras and marbles. And a ferret. In a cyclone. At Christmas. 
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> hectic


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guhbluh

Steve crouched behind a manicured hedge, carefully scoping out the motion detectors. He pulled a small can from his pocket and sprayed a film over the sensor of the nearest one, skilfully making his way across the dark garden in perfect silence. It was slow work, and as usual Steve found his thoughts turning to the Winter Soldier. It had been weeks since the incident in the tunnels, but Steve hadn’t been able to get it out of his head.

What little they knew about him painted a strange picture; operating for far longer than a human should be able to he’d acted mostly as a leashed assassin for the terrorist group HYDRA, until one day a few years ago there were several high level deaths in the organisation and the Soldier became a free agent, taking disparate jobs in the area he was skilled in.

He’d never been caught, had an inhuman success rate, and no one knew anything about him.

The man’s eyes had caught Steve’s interest that night on the boat, but since then everything he learned about the Soldier simply made him more curious, a dangerous puzzle he couldn’t seem to let go of.

Steve reached the gates, hesitating at the volley of growls from beyond the wall. Reaching into his pack Steve extracted a small yellow sphere and tossed it over. A round of sniffing and a single bark preceded the sound of several large bodies hitting the ground. Peeking over the edge Steve saw the pile of dogs asleep on the moroccan tile. From a standstill Steve flipped over the gate, landing without a sound and picking up the night-night toy.

The house was very large, with high ceilings and lots of glass, tastefully decorated with several pieces of art worth more than the property itself. Breaking in through a bathroom window wasn’t difficult, and Steve had no trouble avoiding the cameras inside as he slinked through the house towards the master bedroom.

With silent fingers he opened the door, the plush carpet absorbing his every sound as his slipped inside. The room was more lavish than the rest of the house, a dramatic four-poster bed dominating the space. To the right a door led to an en suite bathroom, a large window to the left. Ghosting around to the side of the bed Steve palmed his pistol, carefully checking the silencer. Taking a soundless breath he took a hold of the fabric and pulled aside the curtain. There in the bed was the sleeping form of Aleksander Lukin, blond head light against the dark sheets.

But Steve barely saw him, rather more distracted by the matching swish of curtains on the other side of the bed. Jerking his gun up at the exact same moment as the man opposite Steve found himself once again face-to-face with the Winter Soldier.

He was dressed in black gear, a harness around his hips. He held a silenced pistol aimed directly at Steve’s head, a startled look on his handsome face.

“What are you doing here,” he demanded almost without sound.

“Ah, killing—killing Lukin?” Steve offered under his breath, completely poleaxed.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “The hell you are. This is my kill.”

“Does it matter?” Steve tried, knowing damn well it did. The make of the bullet found in the body would make its way back to SHIELD or the Soldier’s employer, potentially raising many uncomfortable questions. “Look,” Steve began, not sure what he was planning to say.

“Oh no, you’ve already fucked me over once,” the man whispered hotly. “This one’s mine.”

Steve resented that. They’d both only been doing their jobs. “You’re the one who didn’t kill me when you had the chance,” he retorted, keeping his gun up. Lukin slumbered on below them, completely unaware of the argument taking place over his thus far intact head.

Some of the frustration bled from the man’s face and for a split second Steve saw something unfamiliar flit through his silver eyes. Then the Soldier raised a single dark brow and Steve felt something snap into place between them. “I could kill you know. It couldn’t hurt my reputation to take down the mysterious enhanced agent everyone talks about.”

“Why not,” Steve shot back, adrenaline curling beneath his breastbone. “Apparently I’m not the only one.”

The man’s lush mouth twitched in a half smile, though his gun did not waver. “Prove it.”

Steve looked the man over. His tight dark clothing accentuated his powerful body, and Steve couldn’t shake the sense memory of it pressed against his. “How about we make a deal?” He suggested.

The Soldier’s eyes were grey in the darkness. “Such as?”

“Intel for the kill.”

The man paused for a split second, and Steve knew he was intrigued. His eyes narrowed. “I don't need anything on you.”

“You know that's not what I meant.”

Steve could see him weighing it up. “I assume there's a catch.”

“You're the catch. No one's been able to hook you yet. I'm seizing the opportunity.”

The Soldier watched him consideringly. “You'd have no way of knowing if I was telling the truth.”

“It'd still be the closest anyone's ever gotten to getting the take on you, Mr. The Soldier.” Steve raised his eyebrows at him.

The man's mouth twitched.

“One question,” he capitulated at length.

“Three.” Steve sent a silent apology to Natasha, but he'd always trusted his instincts.

The agent's half grin flashed in the darkness. “One, but I swear I'll tell you the truth.” Steve hid a shiver at the intimate whisper.

He knew such a promise held no meaning for people like them. “Deal.” He didn't care.

The man swept his free hand to indicate Steve should ask.

“What's your name?”

The smugness lifted from the Soldier's expression and for a moment he looked almost vulnerable. And then the ghost of a genuine smile crinkled the edges of his eyes, completely without artifice.

“Bucky,” he rumbled into the darkness between them. Steve knew he should be disappointed by the sobriquet, but he'd asked for the truth and somehow he knew that's exactly what he'd received.

Instinctively Steve opened his mouth to repeat it but before he could speak Bucky's hand moved. There was a flash and a quiet _pfft_ and Lukin died in his sleep. Steve glanced down at the dark stain soaking into the pillow and almost missed Bucky's stealthy exit.

He didn't try to stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate this but i hate my update schedule more


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up to own party 6 months late with no starbucks*

Steve popped the vent cover out of the ceiling deftly, dropping his wide shoulders through the narrow gap to land soundlessly on the carpeted office floor. Padding past the opulent glass desk to a sleek steel bookcase Steve felt around for the hidden latch. A brush of a fingertip and a quiet  _ click _ and the bottom shelf swung loose, revealing a narrow safe set into the wall. Dropping to his knees Steve twisted the knob, listening intently for the first click of the tumblers. 

Perhaps too intently. 

Cold metal fingers wrapped around his throat and Steve froze, his hot pulse a point of stark contrast where it raced in his neck.

“Why,” came a gravelly, pissed-off voice, “are you always  _ fucking me. _ ”

Steve knew the moment he moved a muscle his spine would be mercilessly snapped. 

“I only fuck people who ask me nicely,” Steve replied, quietly enough to stay within the walls of the office. His voice held no trace of the tension singing through his body.

“I beg to fucking differ,” his assailant growled. 

“That wasn’t ‘nicely’, Bucky.” Steve’s tone was light, but the name fell heavy between them. The hitch in Bucky’s breath was only audible to enhanced hearing. For one heartbeat his grip loosened, his fingers shifting against Steve’s skin. 

That moment was all Steve needed, slipping a metal disk from his sleeve and slapping it against Bucky’s wrist. It was designed to disable defense equipment but it fried Bucky’s electronics just as effectively. His arm went limp and Steve leapt to his feet, catching Bucky’s wrist just as he tore the jammer off. Muscles straining Steve wrestled him into a hold, his shoes digging into the carpet as he fought to restrain his opponent. Behind him Steve could see the open window that must have been his point of ingress—apparently being on the 83rd floor was not an obstacle for The Winter Soldier. Panting through his teeth Steve tried to pull Bucky’s arm up behind his back, but he wasn’t quite strong enough to best the technology. Somehow Bucky twisted out of Steve’s grip, reversing their positions to deliver a punch to his kidney that nearly put Steve on his knees. 

Biting his tongue to keep silent as pain exploded through his gut Steve caught Bucky’s fist, trapping the hand against his side and slamming his elbow into the other man’s face. Bucky didn’t make a sound, so Steve heard the metallic signature of a knife being drawn without interference. He released Bucky’s arm to twist out of the way but that was a mistake—Bucky took the opportunity to force him up against the wall beside the bookcase, pinning Steve’s wrist with his metal hand, the knife in his right aimed at Steve’s throat. Steve caught his forearm and held, a contest of strength as Bucky tried to plunge the blade home. But in his haste his elbow knocked the crystal decanter perched on the shelf, sending it crashing loudly to the ground. 

Both men froze, arrested by the sudden noise. Bucky’s body was like hot iron where it pressed against Steve. His enhanced hearing picked up footsteps approaching and by the clench of his jaw Steve knew Bucky could hear it too. Their eyes met and held. Bucky’s gaze was dark, and Steve could feel him holding his breath. There was a drop of sweat making its way down his temple and Steve tracked it out of the corner of his eye. Their arms still trembled with strain as they stood paralysed, waiting to see if the other would make a sound or show a weakness. The footsteps reached the door and Steve felt the muscles in Bucky’s stomach clench.

The steps kept going. 

With renewed energy Bucky threw his weight behind the knife strike and Steve let go. Bracing his feet Steve slid an inch to the left and allowed the blade to bite deep into his shoulder, a slide of white heat. Expecting resistance Bucky was throw slightly off balance—just enough for Steve to free his arm.

Bucky recovered inhumanly fast but Steve was already there, forcing him back a step. Bucky bared his teeth and braced himself—and then they were both tipping over the desk chair, landing on the floor with their heads and shoulders out the open window. 

The icy wind blew Bucky’s hair into Steve’s face as he wrestled to pin him, obscuring his view of the dizzying drop. Somehow Steve got his arm around Bucky’s neck, ruthlessly cutting off the airway. Bucky hardly seemed to notice the difference, reaching up to dig his fingers into the knife wound on Steve’s shoulder. Pain screamed through his muscle tissue but Steve didn’t budge, holding the pressure across Bucky’s throat. Bucky shuddered, body bowing under Steve’s, his eyes growing dark. Even now it was a struggle to maintain the advantage, Bucky’s frantic squirming sending Steve’s heart into his mouth as it threatened to tip them over the edge. One of Bucky’s hands snapped out to grasp the window frame, Steve shouting “ _ Don’t! _ ” a moment to late. With a strength he shouldn’t have possessed Bucky pulled them both further out into the freezing air, Steve’s knees sliding across the carpet until one slipped off the edge. 

With a twist of his hips, the Winter Soldier threw him off the building. 

Reaching out blindly, adrenaline so high it blurred his vision, Steve caught Bucky’s arm with one hand. His boots squeaked against the glass as he instinctively scrabbled for a foothold, dangling a thousand feet above the earth, entirely at Bucky’s mercy. Breathing hard Steve met Bucky’s gaze through the veil of wind-whipped hair, grip tightening painfully on the man’s bicep. The blue eyes were wide, one of his hands coming to clutch Steve’s wrist in a bruising grip. Steve stared back, breath harsh, arm straining, and contemplated that he was finally about to die. 

Bucky looked down, far down, but Steve kept his eyes on the man’s face. So he saw the exact moment Bucky made his decision. 

“Wait, I—”

“Sorry, Agent.” Bucky looked back at Steve with a wild spark in his wintry eyes. “Knew you'd fall for me eventually.”

“You—!”

And with a painful tug Bucky tore Steve’s hand from his metal arm, and let go.

Steve didn’t think he screamed, but the rush of air in his ears was so loud he couldn’t be sure. The sensation of his stomach dropping out was so strong it was painful, and Steve wished he was thinking something more profound as he dropped, but the sensation of falling took up all of his consciousness. Twisting in the air Steve squinted against the driving wind to at least see his end coming—

And almost missed the scaffold as it rushed up to meet him. 

Ignoring the pain as he crashed into the platform Steve grasped the cables suspending the frame and losing the skin off his palms in the process. The cleaner’s cradle swung out from the building and slammed back into it with a bone-jarring crash, but the glass stayed intact. Collapsing on his back in the bottom of the scaffold Steve stared up at the sky and the single open window directly above. 

There was no way Bucky hadn’t seen this from up there. He’d dropped him onto it on purpose. The bastard. 

A giggle burst out of Steve’s mouth. He clapped a hand over it but it didn’t help. Soon peals of laughter were being snatched from his lips by the cold wind, carrying his mirth up into the cheery clouds swirling above him. The adrenaline drained away, leaving euphoria in its place. Steve wiped tears out of his eyes and tried to calm down, but it was several long minutes before he was coherent enough to call for a helicopter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this entire chapter in comic sans
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> recommended listening: the incredibles ost


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